


Aziraphale and the Underworld

by PangurBan24601



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels dining, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale loves opera, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, L'Orfeo, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Operas, Orpheus and the Underworld, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Sort of half book/half tv series, Stab Wound, aziraphale emotional whump, hadestown - Freeform, some furious blushing, weird historical references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23705929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PangurBan24601/pseuds/PangurBan24601
Summary: Aziraphale enjoys going to performances, operas in particular. Crowley less so, though he frequently tags along on account of there being nothing better to do. There is one particular Greek myth that Aziraphale keeps going to see with the secret hope that one day it might turn out well. Crowley has a similar hope.(In which Aziraphale and Crowley visit the opera throughout the centuries.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Aziraphale and the Underworld

**_Paris, 1874_**

“Well, that was… _something,_ ” Aziraphale said after an awkward moment of silence following the curtain dropping on what had to have been the strangest spectacle the angel had seen on any stage.

“Yeah, it sort of reminded me of that other one we went to—when was it now? 1606? 1607?” Crowley added, absently. “This one was funnier, though.”

“’07, I believe,” Aziraphale confirmed. “Yes, this was rather a twisted parody of the original story. Had some good tunes, though. That Galop’s a real banger. Mark my words, we haven’t heard the last of that one.”

Aziraphale smiled over at Crowley, obviously awaiting some kind of affirmation. Crowley glanced back at him, looking slightly confused.

“A real—what’s that now?” the demon asked, blinking at the angel.

“I said a real—are you quite all right?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Crowley said, waving vaguely.

Aziraphale studied the demon closely for the first time that day.

“You’ve got wine all down your front,” Aziraphale said, worried. It wasn’t like Crowley to be sloppy, or to waste alcohol, for that matter.

“I have?” Crowley said, his hand traveling to his shirt. He stared at his hand briefly before commenting, “Oh, _right_ …shit _._ ” He gave Aziraphale a guilty look. Without hesitation, the angel reached out and swiped his fingers across the stain. He rubbed his fingers together, noting the tacky texture.

_Blood._

“It’s blood…Y-You’re _bleeding_!” Aziraphale stammered.

“ _Heh_ , so I am,” Crowley said, trying and utterly failing to play it off.

“What _happened?_ And _when?_ ” the angel demanded. “You’ve been here the entire opera!”

“Just ran into a bit of trouble on my way over, may have taken a knife to the gut. I could have sworn I set it healing properly. Whoopsie.”

“This blood is _fresh,_ Crowley. You’ve been bleeding for over two hours,” Aziraphale said, exasperated.

“ _Shhh!”_ Crowley hissed, looking around. A few of the patrons were staring and whispering to each other.

“Well, that’s done it!” Crowley said in a loud, exaggeratedly drunken tone. “Honestly, I should be forbidden from drinking pinot noir until I acquire a scarlet waistcoat.” That did the trick; the few patrons remaining nearby took their leave with prudish scowls.

“There, now you can be properly cross with me,” Crowley said with a smug grin, which disappeared instantly when he saw the look of genuine worry on Aziraphale’s face. “Oh, come on, angel, I’m _fine—”_

“Aren’t you in pain? There’s no way you bled through an entire opera without even noticing it.” The angel reached out and placed a gentle hand on Crowley’s forehead, checking for a fever. Whatever blood was left in Crowley found its way to his face.

“I mean, a bit, yeah, ‘s’not a big deal though, must’ve mucked up the proper miracle somehow…” the demon mumbled, turning his head away and breaking the contact. Aziraphale’s frown deepened. _Mucked up the proper miracle?_ Neither of them ever _mucked up_ a miracle. Plans and intentions, yes, _frequently_ even. But not miracles.

“I just don’t understand,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. “Why aren’t you healing, and _why_ _in heaven’s name_ did you come to an opera while wounded?”

“ _Er_ , let’s see,” Crowley said, numbering his answers with his fingers. “Not sure, and I didn’t want to hurt your feelings again.”

Aziraphale stared open-mouthed at the demon. “My dear Crowley, in what world are my feelings more important than your _life_?”

“Now that’s not a fair question; I’ll either look like a prick or a prat if I answer that one—”

“It serves you right for being a _bloody fool!_ ”

Crowley fell silent at that, and Aziraphale knew why. It had been several hundred years since the demon had riled him up enough to use even the lightest profanity.

Most people feel better when they let loose with a few good curse words. It has the opposite effect on angels. The knot of anxiety that had been growing in Aziraphale’s stomach tightened. He took a slow, steadying breath.

“We’re going back to my hotel. _Now._ Can you walk?” Aziraphale asked, reaching out to help pull Crowley to his feet.

“Don’t be so s-stupid, of course I can walk—” Crowley managed to hiss before nearly collapsing into the angel’s arms with a sharp cry of pain. Aziraphale kept a firm grip on Crowley while the demon steadied both his feet on the ground. Crowley looked up, expecting some kind of “I told you so” expression, but Aziraphale was as decent as ever, offering only a small, sympathetic smile, which frankly may have been worse.

* * *

“Nice place,” Crowley quipped as Aziraphale led him through the luxurious interior of _Le Meurice_.

“Yes, I do rather like it here. It’s the high tea. No one else seems to get it quite as right, not even in London. Ah, here we are.”

Aziraphale blinked at the ornately decorated door before them, which sprung open in response.

“There’s the sofa here, or there’s a bed in—”

“Sofa’s fine,” Crowley said. The sofa was fancy. Crowley liked the idea of bleeding on something fancy; it gave him a warm and fuzzy feeling. He sat down and began pulling at his shirt while Aziraphale busied himself with finding blankets, pillows, and towels.

“You don’t have to go to all that trouble, angel, I feel fine,” Crowley said, pulling his glasses off and tossing them on the marble-topped coffee table depicting a particularly rosy-cheeked cherub. His yellow eyes followed the angel, who was throwing open several closets and chests, tossing their contents this way and that.

“That’s a lie, and not even a very good one,” Aziraphale responded. He returned to the sofa with a small pillow, which he gently placed beneath Crowley’s head before standing back and taking in the sight of the wounded demon who now lay shirtless and bleeding on the (formerly) mint-condition Tilliard sofa.

Crowley’s hip bones jutted out sharply above his way-before-their-time low-rise trousers, casting small shadows over the pale skin of his flat belly. It made Aziraphale vaguely uncomfortable. He was never sure if Crowley’s painfully thin form was an aesthetic choice or simply the result of a lack of care for his human body (he had never asked; it would have been tremendously rude), but either way it made the angel want to drag him straight to the nearest café to force-feed him a dozen macarons.[1]

The stab wound just to the left of Crowley’s navel was still bleeding, though it seemed to have slowed from the time Aziraphale had discovered it. It was the simple fact that it hadn’t healed yet that had Aziraphale so worried. It _should_ have been a scar by now, if not completely gone.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance this is a holy wound?” Aziraphale ventured with careful indifference as he pressed a folded towel against the injury.

“A holy—wha? What’s that now?” Crowley asked absently. His eyes were now half-lidded and his head was lolling as if he had been drinking, which Aziraphale knew he hadn’t been. Well, except for the glass of wine he’d had when he sat down beside Aziraphale at the opera, which can’t have done much of anything for the demon who had once shown off his ability to outdrink a fish.[2]

Crowley’s apparent drunkenness combined with the distinct _lack_ of alcohol in his system had Aziraphale more worried for the demon’s life than he felt comfortable letting on.

“A _holy wound_ ,” the angel repeated more emphatically, as if talking to an elderly man who was a combination of senile and deaf.

“ _Ha,_ good one, angel. This _is_ the holiest you’ve ever seen me,” Crowley said, pressing his hand to the covered wound as if he intended to put his arm straight through his body like in cartoons. It must have pained him, as he immediately flinched and gasped in surprise.

Aziraphale forced himself to _breathe._ This was very bad, and either Crowley was too far gone to notice, or retained very little concern for his own life. The former was terrifying, the latter was too painful to consider.

“I should like to know who stabbed you and what they stabbed you with.” Aziraphale spoke very slowly and deliberately.

“Jus’ a regular knife, or…maybe something blessed,” Crowley slurred. “An angel’s s-sword wouldn’t of left anything behind.”

Just the thought of Crowley getting permanently disintegrated, body and soul, made Aziraphale feel nauseated. A holy wound could do that, he had no doubt. It was possible Crowley was facing far worse than the mountain of paperwork an inconvenient discorporation would require.

“A hunter, then. They must have had a blessed blade of some kind,” Aziraphale said. “That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“He said s-something about _‘Professional Descendant,’_ or s-some rubbish,” Crowley added, though he seemed to be in agreement with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale nodded. He had a decision to make now. Either perform a blessing to heal a demon of a blessed injury and face the consequences later, or leave miracles out of it and drive Crowley to the nearest hospital for clumsy treatment at the hands of humans and hope for the best.

It wasn’t a decision, really, as that would imply that Aziraphale had considered taking a chance with Crowley’s life at stake, which he never would have. It’s more that he _fretted_ about the pain he knew his miracle would cause, and he _worried_ about the strong possibility that this particular miracle would reveal their hidden fraternization to the ones Upstairs. Aziraphale quickly shook these thoughts from his mind. Crowley was weakening by the moment. There was no choice, and hesitation would only prolong the demon’s suffering.

“Right then,” Aziraphale said, wanly. He knelt beside the sofa and placed a trembling, perfectly manicured hand to Crowley’s bleeding gut. “T-Try to hold still, dear fellow…”

_“_ Why? _What’r’you gonna d—”_ Crowley broke off with a shriek of pain.

“ _Shhh, shh, shh,_ there there, almost done,” Aziraphale murmured, mostly to himself. He winced as Crowley screamed again and clawed at Aziraphale’s hand, which was still pressed firmly against the rapidly healing wound.

“Just a bit more, my dear, nearly there now,” Aziraphale continued to murmur softly. Crowley stopped screaming and released a choked sob instead, which was somehow far worse. It was all over moments later. In fact, the whole ordeal had lasted less than ten seconds, though it had felt much longer to the angel.

“Could have warned me before you cast a fucking _blessing_ on me,” Crowley panted, still trembling from the shock of being healed through _holy_ means.

“I—I panicked,” Aziraphale said, truthfully. “I feared I would risk losing you if I delayed any longer.”

_“Bollocks,”_ Crowley said, rolling his eyes as he sat up on the sofa. “I might’ve discorporated at worst.”

“Well, it just so happens that I _like_ your current corporation.”

Crowley threw a hand to his face to hide the sudden burning in his cheeks and played it off like he was shielding his eyes from the dim light of the room. Aziraphale held out the abandoned pair of sunglasses, which Crowley accepted gratefully, shoving them on.

“You, _er…like_ my corporation?” Crowley asked, purposefully not looking at the angel as he pulled his shirt back on. He casually miracled the bloodstains from it and the priceless sofa.

“Well, I—of course I like it,” Aziraphale said with a slightly confused head tilt. “Everyone likes things that they’re used to; it’s a matter of comfort. You’ve been using that form far longer than any other, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right about that,” Crowley agreed, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “You—you’re not going to get in trouble for helping me, are you?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale answered honestly. “I’ll just have to wait and see. I’m sure I can handle any kind of remedial training they decide to throw at me either way. I could just say you tricked me into thinking you were a human. That way we both look good. Or, you do, at least.” The angel smiled reassuringly.

“That might work.” Crowley nodded, then added, “I, _er,_ I hope I didn’t ruin the show for you.”

“The what? Oh, the _opera!_ No, not at all. I rather dislike what they did to Orpheus in this one anyway. I’m just a hopeless romantic when it comes to Greek myth,” Aziraphale said, cheerfully shrugging.

“So did you still want to get dinner?” Crowley asked, lazily getting to his feet, hands in his pockets.

“Oh!” Aziraphale said excitedly. “You’re sure you don’t want to rest some more? I understand you rather enjoy sleeping…”

“Nah, I’ve slept most of this century anyway. You should take me somewhere new. You're hungry, aren’t you?”

“Not in the slightest!” Aziraphale said as he delightedly reached for his coat. "How about _Au Rocher de Cancale?_ It's been a favorite of mine ever since I got Dumas to sign my copy of _The Three Musketeers_ there several years back."

Crowley smiled a not particularly wicked smile.

"Whatever you want, angel."

[1] Aziraphale had adored macarons ever since visiting the town of Nancy during the French Revolution, where his year-long patronage at a macaron shop had single-handedly financed the room and board for the two Carmelite nuns who ran it. He might have continued to purchase macarons there indefinitely if he hadn’t been arrested and nearly beheaded in Paris but for the valiant efforts of a certain snake-eyed demon. He was dismayed upon his return to Nancy to find that the nuns had moved on to baking _petit fours_ , which, although delicious, could never compare to the perfection that was the _Macarons de Nancy_. 

[2] This is more impressive than it sounds, as the creature that swallowed Jonah is to this day classified as a “fish” in the most correct version of the Bible, that is to say the _least incorrect_ version _,_ and is the very fish which Crowley managed to win against in a drinking contest. The only reason this never showed up in the _Guinness Book of World Records,_ of which Crowley is a great fan and has contributed several entries under a variety of aliases, is that the _Book_ requires at least _two_ witnesses be present, and also that the feat predated the first publication of the _Book_ by precisely two-thousand seven-hundred and thirteen years.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
